


turn, turn, turn

by Rae_Gar_Targaryen91



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Din Djarin Needs a Hug, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Princess!Reader, Protective Din Djarin, Romance, Romangst, reader is a princess, reader is quarry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:20:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28144485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rae_Gar_Targaryen91/pseuds/Rae_Gar_Targaryen91
Summary: To everything, there is a season. To you, there is only your Mandalorian. All of this, all of you, all of him, in a year. Told in four parts, one to a season.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Original Female Character(s), Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You, The Mandalorian/Original Female Character(s), The Mandalorian/Reader, The Mandalorian/You, reader is a brat... for now, tin can space dad
Comments: 3
Kudos: 37





	turn, turn, turn

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Oh, look! It’s finally happening, and probably very underwhelming because I’ve built so much hype in my own head about this for over a YEAR. This takes place during & post season one. But I’ve fudged the timeline a bit, so it's a little non-sequential. Sorry, not sorry.   
> And, oh, look! The reader is royalty! It’s another lyrical/faux-poetic vignette story! This time, it’s seasonal. Is this becoming my cliche? Are seasonal vignettes cliche? Is saying it’s cliche, cliche? Either way, maybe I’m a cliche. But you can tell me. Please be honest about whether you liked this because I feel like my Mando is SO OOC. AHHH. This makes me NERVOUS, because I’ve never posted Star Wars before. 
> 
> The poem that breaks up each of the four, seasonal vignettes (and is given fully at the end) is my own, so please don’t cut and paste elsewhere (not that you would want to). And please be gentle.

Some things were funnier in Mando'a. Every language had its quirks, its idioms, its points of inflection -- inside jokes for native speakers.

Suffice it to say, the Mandalorian had never found anything funny about stars, never chuckled at a moon or system, and didn't see the humor in this galaxy as a whole. 

So, the Basic idiom " _ cosmic joke _ " held no meaning or humor for the Beskar-clad man stood before you.

He regarded you with what certainly must be distaste from behind the ridges and t-shaped visor of his helmet.

_ No _ , he thought.  _ Nothing amusing at all. No cosmic joke here.  _

Some things were funnier in Mando'a. But this was not one of those things.

\---

_ Spring is a Fool. _

You thought hiding out on an Outer-Rim planet was the way to go. As the princess of a planet courted by the now-defunct Empire, you were certain they were now looking for you. 

Why the Empire had been interested in your small, far-removed planet was a mystery to you. Maybe it was Vorduun’s lush greenery, flora and fauna abound in your home, replete with temperate weather so desirable for growing produce and other harvestable goods. No, it seemed they were interested in alignment through power and pure numbers, courting your home to be one of many that they could add to their ranks. Nevertheless, they had come knocking on your palace door, proffering a proposal of marriage and a “strong alliance.” 

Your planet, small enough to be off the radar to most, did not boast the heartiest defense system or military. Under the threat of being crushed by the bleak juggernaut should you refuse their “offer,” your father had steadfastly agreed to said alliance -- better to play nice and continue to remain relatively unmolested than be blown apart by their planet-killer. You were certain they would not even need to charge their weapon fully to destroy you, should they so desire. 

_ “For the good of Vorduun _ ,” your father had said. 

The good of Vorduun, indeed. 

You had not even met your betrothed before you were bustled off of your homeworld with a trunk your mother had packed full of Vorduunian goods and bolts of gauzy material meant to serve as “dresses'' in which to court  _ him.  _ You were hurried by ‘troopers onto a large, slow moving vessel -- the head of some fleet. The courier had briefly shown you and your parents a hologram of the one you were to call husband, but for the life of you, you could not pick him out of a crowd at blasterpoint. Some faceless, ranking Imperial official. He would never truly be your partner, though you were to be bound to him for the rest of your natural days. 

The sickness you felt permeating your body, all the way through your bones and into your very soul, was immeasurable. You watched with a heavy heart as Vorduun shrank into the vastness of space, as the monstrous vessel you found yourself upon passed the sparkling moons and other green planets that adorned the small system you had called home -- but, it wasn’t your home anymore, was it? This frigid, grey, carbon-and-durasteel monstrosity was … at least until they had shunted you off to wherever your betrothed resided.

_ Huh. You had not even thought to ask. Likely on Byss or Coruscant. Some snooty, shiny Core-world. _

“This way,” the monotonous voice of a Stormtrooper crackled through their helmet’s modulator. But you could not bear to break yourself from the glass porthole, could not bear to turn and face this change that had been thrust upon you. 

\---

Days passed on this prison transport, with no word from either your father or the man you were to marry. Meals were brought to your quarters with the cycles, and you never once abandoned your silent post at the porthole window of your bleak quarters, except for when a ‘trooper would come around to escort you about the ship for daily exercise. They never spoke to you, either. 

Your days were silent; a blank canvas upon which you could properly project the mourning you felt for the loss of your home. 

So when your transport was suddenly under attack, sirens blaring and lights flashing, your first and immediate thought was that you were to die in the annals of deep space, bits of you adrift with the stardust, never to see Vorduun again.

You broke from your quarters in panic, taking in the scene of troopers rushing by with officers to man battlestations amid shouts that the Rebellion was here. 

You ran to the nearest window, sky now ablaze with green and red cannon fire from X-Wings and TIE fighters alike, pieces of the Empire’s monstrous ship breaking off like blocks of melted ice, jettisoned into space where it would become nothing. 

Clearly, no one was monitoring you in the fray. 

And while your planet had never known war, you were faced with your decision; the first of your own to make since your king-father had sold you to the Empire: You could die in the hands of the Empire, a casualty of Rebellion attack. Or, should you survive this, you could die a slow death as the statute-wife of a faceless officer within a brutal regime. Your third option? You could flee -- and, more than likely, die trying. 

Either way, death seemed an inevitability. But would you greet it?

Chaos continued to unfurl around you, the ship vibrating as it both took fire and spat rage back at the Rebels. 

Your last, peaceable thought amidst the destruction was of the warm Spring sunshine back on Vorduun; how you longed to dip your toes in the cool lake waters within the hidden garden of your palace. Should you live, you would choose somewhere warm, with clear blue skies and even bluer waters. You had to try. 

WIth that, you glanced around to ensure the Imperials still hadn’t noticed you before quickly stealing away to the side of the ship you so oft passed on your chaperoned walks -- the section where the escape pods were docked. After all, pods were dropping off the ship left and right. Surely they wouldn’t notice yours. 

And if they did? 

Well, you had hoped that you were a good enough runner to give yourself a head start. 

\---

You had once thought hiding out on an Outer-Rim planet was the way to go. 

As the princess of a planet courted by the now-defunct Empire, you now knew they were absolutely looking for you. 

In the time since you had fled, news had spread across the galaxy of the Empire’s supposed fall. But freedom was not so easily won -- not yours, and not the galaxy’s. You knew it was not the last you would hear from the Empire and its leadership of dark, ancient sorcerers. 

You had kept your head down throughout the early months of what was supposed to be spring on this dusty, no-name planet. You survived on dried jackfruit and odd jobs, renting a modest space behind a cantina where you would wipe tables for next to no credits. 

The owner, some leathery blue creature, had taken one look at your fresh face and smooth, unmarred hands. If it was not clear you were not from this planet before, the look he (it?) had given you had certified the thought. Stil, it seemed to be a policy on this planet that no one asked anyone else cuttingly personal questions. Something you were grateful for, and took full advantage of as you became comfortable enough to show your face to the general public, not so concerned with keeping your head down. After all, who  _ was _ looking at this point?

The silence that was your constant companion on the Imperial starship had not yet abandoned you. It was now your only companion as this planet carried on around you; you lost yourself to the swirling bustle of each day. New faces, but never any names, passed your periphery, as yours did theirs. 

Weeks bled to months, and you became foolishly secure that this planet of lost creatures, none of whom were interested in being found, would harbor you until you could plan your next move. 

Foolish. 

Because of course they  _ were _ looking for you. 

You knew that the moment the helmeted man in silver steel entered your cantina, halting in front of -- not one of any number of seedy, bumbling fugitives you knew as your patrons -- but in front of you. 

\---

When the Mandalorian had been given your puck, his first thought was that another spoiled heiress had robbed her much-too-old husband blind and had stolen away to Canto Bight for careless and faceless fun at the expense of everyone around her. 

How else would you explain the unmarred beauty that shone through the hologram alight from the bounty puck? Careless, thoughtless beauty, navigating the galaxy in a breezy daze and sparing no concern for others. 

His distaste for you was thick on his tongue as Karga told him of the Imperial who had requisitioned the hunt.

“Some princess from a small planet called Vorduun,” Karga had told him. “She never quite made it to her Imperial husband. And, well, you know how the Imps can hold a grudge.” 

_ Ah. So. Not an heiress -- but a princess.  _ Din thought.  _ Same spoiled, rich blood that would probably curdle like spoiled milk if he touched it. Though Din was no stranger to blood, the thought of yours was nevertheless … Distasteful.  _

Karga cleared his throat, sliding the puck across the table to Din’s waiting, gloved hands. 

“The orders are quite specific, Mando,” Karga continued. “Alive  _ only.  _ And quickly. Surely that won’t be a problem? One little girl?”

Din sighed, tilting his helmet in what he had hoped was his best faceless glower in Karga’s direction. 

“One runaway rich girl, coming up.” 

After all, the requisition was worth well more than the cost of fuel for this job; and as long as there were no leads on what to do with the Child while he continued to outrun the Empire, he could use the extra scratch. Return the girl to Karga, with the dregs of the Empire none the wiser that he had ever been involved. 

With that, the Mandalorian had left Nevarro with a swirl of his cape; until here he was -- stood before you on this hellscape of a planet, taking in your widening eyes as they met where his would be behind his visor. He saw the recognition flash across your face before it broke into a quick, flashing question: could you run quickly enough?

He slid his hand down to the holster at his side, clicking the blaster between his gloved fingers and starting to draw it.

“I wouldn’t,” was all he said. 

\---

You started to turn, when -- 

“I wouldn’t,” came from behind the visor of your would-be captor. Said in a single, monotone breath; flat, like he had resigned himself to the fact that you would run. And, even moreso, the fact that he knew you would not be successful. 

You stood still, warily watching as his hand crept along the blaster at his side. 

No one in the cantina flinched. Sure, they had all frozen when this man -- this Mandalorian, legendary warrior -- had entered the cantina. Likely they were each, in turn, afraid that he had come for  _ them.  _ When they were confident he wasn’t there for them, they had gone back to their brightly-colored drinks and games of Sabacc. 

No. Luck was never on your side; why would it start today? He was here for you, and he had the bearing of a killer. 

You slowly held your hands up, palms open in surrender. After all, you had made peace with your fate that day the Rebellion had attacked the Imperial ship -- you could have died then, or, now it was clear, you could die later. Either way, the quiet life you had made for yourself was now meeting a quiet, swift end at the hands of this hunter. The Empire had never been known for its mercy, and you knew that. 

You sighed. 

“They’re finally going to kill me, then?” You chimed softly, “Lead the way, hunter.” 

He paused, visibly stiffening at your words before coming back to himself and exchanging the blaster with a pair of binders, gripping both your wrists in one hand as he fastened them to you, pushing you in front of him, out of the cantina and into the springtime heat. 

\---

The man had led you back to his ship on the outskirts of the village. Your feet slipped and sifted over the sand, your hewn dress no help as you trekked over the dunes. He nudged you along and up the ramp, into the cool darkness of his transport. 

He still hadn’t spoken.

It would be unnerving, if your mind was not moving at lightspeed trying to figure your own way out of this one. You had nothing to barter. You had left everything you had owned on the ship when you had made your hasty escape, existing in the Outer Rim with nothing but the clothes on your back. You had no money; your title worth less than a slip of paper you could scrawl it on. Had the hunter not shown up, you would have assumed your father or betrothed had thought you dead -- therefore unable to leverage your way out of this bind. 

Not that you would. Try to leverage it, that is. You didn’t need them. They had traded for you like livestock. You would not speak their names. Never. 

But the silence on the hunter’s ship was deafening. What he lacked in words, the weighty silence that surrounded him more than made up for it; rife with expectation and unspoken threats. 

As the Mandalorian bustled around you, locking up his long-rifle, closing the hatch, and rearranging crates, he had left you standing, unmoving in the storage bay of his ship.

You had sworn you would never speak of your father or your would-be husband. You had sworn it. 

But… Part of you had to know what this Mandalorian knew. Who exactly had put the puck out on you? Who was still searching? 

So, you had to try.

You cleared your throat, tilting your chin upward in what you’d hoped was your best regal, authoritarian air. After all, what were all those years of etiquette lessons and court training with your mother worth if you could not convince a simple, faceless brute of your importance? You lowered your voice an octave as you spoke, cursing yourself when you immediately stuttered as the man faced you,

“M-my bethrothed is a very important man within the Empire. When he finds out that you’ve taken me, he’ll--” 

The Mandalorian’s sudden, uncouth snort from beneath his helmet cut you off. He turned to face you, thick arms crossing over his armored, plated chest as he tilted his head at you, mockingly. 

“He’ll  _ what _ ? Hire me to bring you to him? Who did you think put the puck out on you,  _ princess _ ?” His voice sneered from beneath his helmet.

_ So it was true.  _

What you now knew was a ceaseless pursuit of you by your father and your “beloved” had proven there really was no place in this galaxy for you to escape your fate. And they had hired this steel-clad mercenary to return you, like a disobedient cur. Like  _ property. _

The Mandalorian noted how your face fell, chin no longer tilted up in defiance at him, your eyes only meeting the floor of his ship. 

“I see,” you said quietly. “So, you work for the Empire, then,” you whispered. 

The Mandalorian’s head jerked at that, almost as though he was feeling the quick, licking heated flames of indignancy, of  _ offense. _

“I work for whoever shells out the credits.” His voice was flat coming from the helmet. “You’re no different than the other bail-jumping scum. Just another puck.” 

_ Ouch. So you  _ _ had _ _ offended him. And he could strike a quick barb back.  _

But if he was no friend of the Empire, then just  _ maybe… _

You squared your shoulders, stepping forward across the cold grating on the floor of his ship, beneath the sole, dim light in its bay. Stepping toward your captor. You tilted your chin up again, dim light playing across your regal cheekbones. 

“You will return me to where you found me, hunter,” you decreed. 

The Mandalorian did not budge. His stone stature gave no indication that he had even heard you. You tried again, reaching for the pauldron on his shoulder with both hands, still in binders, to force him to listen to you, once again deepening your voice slightly.

“Return me to where you found me. Tell  _ him  _ that you could not locate me. I will reward you handsomely. I am a princess, am I not?" 

The bounty hunter did not move. 

You dropped your hand. 

"If you're a man of honor and no friend to the Empire, you will return me to where you found me," you tried a third time. "I will reward you …  _ please." _

You hated yourself for how small the "please" sounded when it left your lips.

After a long pause, the staticky heave of a dry, wry chuckle emanated from the hunter's helmet. The slight nod of the helmet indicated that he was looking at you properly, taking in the entirety of your form, from your toes to the top of your head, and back down again. Regarding you in a way that made you feel flush, you knew he could take the entirety of you in with his eyes and whatever was behind that helmet, and you could never  _ truly _ know what he thought of you. But the way he looked at you -- he  _ was _ still a man after all, wasn’t he? So maybe you stood a chance, if he liked what he saw …  _ Maybe  _ … 

"You have nothing I want," the Mandalorian began, curtly. Dashing your manipulative hopes in one swift sentence. "Do you know what I do to quarry who won't come quietly?"

You crumpled, your regal and square-shouldered stature wilting as a snowbloom in cold, pale sunlight. 

The Mandalorian tilted his chin toward the rack behind you.

"I bring them in cold. Toss them right into carbonite."

You swallowed thickly, trying to find some semblance of the queen-in-training you had been mere moments ago.

"Y-you wouldn't  _ dare _ \--" you started, before he abruptly cut you off with a jangling, menacing step toward you, fists clenched as he  _ hissed _ :

"Oh, but I  _ would _ . Carbonite doesn't discriminate,  _ Princess _ ," the Mandalorian intoned. "It doesn't care that you're royalty, and neither do I. You can sit silently up there," he nodded toward the ladder where the cockpit must be, "or you can freeze silently down here. Up to you. Your  _ betrothed _ certainly didn't specify the terms of your delivery."

You frowned at him then, rage racing through your veins like scalding liquid boiling your insides.  _ How dare he.  _

With that, the Mandalorian pressed a few buttons on his vambrace, the ramp to his ship closing; he turned to climb the ladder to the cockpit, not sparing you further attention. 

You sighed, climbing and clambering clumsily up the ladder behind him. The Mandalorian was already seated in front of the controls, broad shoulders exceeding the width of his chair, making him look large and imposing, even while seated. You turned to look for where you could plant yourself, shock jolting through your body as you were greeted with the owlish, inky, blinking orbs of a small, green  _ creature  _ seated in the chair behind the hunter. 

The  _ thing  _ cooed at you. 

It was -- in a word,  _ adorable.  _ Monstrously so. You had never seen anything like it.

Perhaps you had been standing and marvelling at the little being for a moment too long. The hunter drolled, without turning to face you, 

“Take a seat,  _ Princess. _ ” 

You sighed. Apparently, the distasteful inflection on your moniker was going to be a regular thing. 

You perched in the only other available seat in the now-cramped cockpit as the Mandalorian punched away at the controls, beginning to take off. 

The miniscule verdant gremlin just  _ cooed  _ at you as the ship ascended, the only noise shattering the silence in the cockpit. His eyes never left you. 

\---

You were well into orbit when you tried speaking to your captor again.

“Hunter.” 

You were met with silence.

“Hunter.” You tried again. 

An exhaling  _ hiss  _ of a sigh escaped his helmet. You took that as your sign to continue. 

“Please. Take me back. Or drop me somewhere else. I don’t much care. Just d- don’t take me to him.” 

The only indication you were given that the Mandalorian had heard you was the slight tilt of his helmet as he continued to flick away at the ship’s controls. His little  _ companion  _ was snoozing, snoring softly in the seat next to you. 

“I’m begging you.  _ Please. _ ”

“Enough,” his tone was clipped. “You think you’re the first one to wear a pair of cuffs and ask me to take them off?” 

You were certain that you weren’t the first. You bowed your head, defeat setting in, creeping into your bones with a sickening ache.

“You don’t know what he’ll do to me,” you whispered. The Mandalorian did not budge. “H-he’ll kill me. All because I won’t serve him. Won’t serve the rotting dregs of the Empire.” 

The Mandalorian exhaled, quiet and evenly this time. 

“He won’t kill you, Princess.” The voice was measured, low and slow. 

You let out a wry, watery chuckle. When had you started to tear up?

“You’re a Mandalorian. You know the destructive ways of the Empire. Or did your homeworld not pay a high enough price?” You paused. “No, if he’s anything like the ilk that came to court my planet, he would rather make an example of me for running.” 

“And risk the wrath of a king?” 

You blinked, surprised at his engagement with you. You snorted lightly. 

“My father has never fought a war. My home is small. We value greenery, not steel. My father would not stand against the Empire, fallen or not.” 

“You are so certain they would kill you,” the hunter still hadn’t turned to face you.

“Have  _ you  _ known the Empire to be particularly merciful? Particularly  _ gracious _ about perceived insubordination?” You snipped. 

This was apparently the point that caused your captor to turn. He leveled you, your gaze locking onto the T of his visor. You sat in staring silence for a long moment. Surprisingly it was the Mandalorian who broke the moment, swivelling slightly in his chair to look at his little friend, before turning back to you. He sighed again. Honestly, if he kept it up, he was going to deflate outright, you were sure of it. 

“We have a long flight. To the other end of a far-off system. We’ll have to stop a few times; refuel,” he leaned forward and released the bidners on your wrists before spinning in his chair again, facing the controls. “Get comfortable, Princess.” 

You rubbed your wrists, eyes never leaving the back of his helmet. 

“Does this mean --” you began.

“We’ll arrive to your betrothed’s planet in a few cycles’ time.” 

Your hopes dashed as quickly as they had come, boiling rage rising swiftly in its place. 

“You are no true Mandalorian,” you announced. He swiveled in his chair, rising swiftly to meet you as you dealt him another verbal blow. “You lack honor, integrity. What good are  _ you _ , if you are just a means to a murder? An accessory, that’s what. You may not swing the sword, but you sharpen the blade for the executioner. I hope you  _ burn _ for it,” you hissed.

He took a clanking step toward you; you stepped back in turn, back inching ever-toward the steel wall, and the hole where the ladder would lead you to the bay below. 

“Where did you  _ get  _ that shiny kit, hm?” You tilted your head, tone mocking. “Strip it from the meat and bones of a more honorable man? You are a  _ murderer, _ ” you spit. 

Your captor had clearly had enough of your verbal abuse. He breezed toward you, clenching your shoulders in a bruising, leathered grip, your back meeting the steel wall behind you. 

“Make no mistake, your highness,” he intoned, “a far more unscrupulous hunter than me could have picked up your puck. You’re lucky I’m patient. Besmirch me, my creed, again? I won’t be so nice. Any other would have killed you for your words. ” 

You yanked your shoulders back and away, forcibly removing yourself from his hold, slapping your hand to your heart in a mock gesture of gratitude. 

“Oh, my  _ hero _ . However will I thank you?” 

He just nodded to the ladder. 

“Go. I wasn’t kidding when I said we had a long journey. You’ll want to rest.” He was  _ maddeningly  _ even-keeled. 

Without another word, you turned on your heel, descending the ladder. 

You noted, in the back end of the bay, a small, enclosed cot barely large enough for a singular form. You supposed your captor had intended for you to rest there, out of his proverbial hair. Assuming he even  _ had  _ hair under the helmet. 

Thoughts of your mirthless keeper swirled in your head as you stripped out of your hewn linen dress, opting to sleep in the slip beneath. You clambered into the sleeping area, shivering at the kiss of cold air on your newly exposed skin. 

\---

Not even the heat of your rage could keep you warm, it seemed.

You had been lying in this  _ pod  _ for the better part of an hour, unable to sleep through your trembling.

And your generous jailer had not allowed you to stop at your humble residence to allow you to pick up a change of clothes. You had hurriedly left the warm, pressing spring of the heated sand planet, now in the frigid air of deep space with only your linen dress and slip. 

Not for the first time today, you found yourself cursing your fortune. 

You cursed yourself again when you realized what your options were: You could suffer in silence; or you could inquire with the Mandalorian about a spare blanket and hope he was feeling particularly obliging. 

_ Not likely,  _ you thought. 

Still, if you could see yourself, you were certain your lips would be tinged with blue. 

You sighed, hauling yourself up the ladder, preparing yourself for the Mandalorian’s even chillier demeanor. 

He swiveled in his chair when he heard you ascending back into the cockpit, the eyes behind the helmet meeting your prickled, bare skin and a starkly  _ white  _ slip. 

You stood before the Mandalorian now, cursing the thinness of the fabric as you shivered at the near-frigid temperature of the cockpit. 

If you didn't know any better, you could swear that the hunter was doing his damndest to look anywhere but directly at you, at the prickling of goosebumps along your arms and legs, sharply kissing the cold air. But you  _ didn't _ know better, as that damned helmet made it impossible to determine with complete certainty as to  _ where _ exactly he was looking.

Worse still, you could feel your nipples puckering and hardening against the thin, white fabric of your shift. Whether it was purely from the cold, or from the confusing, commanding attention of the Mandalorian's scrutiny, now solely directed at you, you couldn't say. You'd only hoped he wasn't as keen as he had proven himself to be, and hadn't noticed. 

“I- I couldn’t sleep,” your teeth chattered lightly. “Do you have … I don’t know … an extra blanket? A thermal tunic? Something?” 

The Mandalorian was frustratingly still, regarding you for a long moment. His scrutiny was enough to cause your skin to heat in flushed embarrassment; you were stupid, stupid,  _ stupid  _ for coming up here like this. But you were  _ so cold.  _

His gaze was unrelenting. 

Your skin felt awash with molten gold spilling over from the tips of your fingertips through the rest of your body; was the cold turning on you now, or were you just flush at the prospect of capturing the hunter's attention? What was it he had said not hours before? You had  _ nothing _ he wanted?

He  _ was _ still a man, wasn’t he?

Wordlessly, the Mandalorian reached up and in one smooth movement, unclipped his cape, spinning in his chair and thrusting it roughly into your hands.

"Space can be cold, Princess. Pack  _ better _ next time."

His hands clenched on his end of the cape for a beat longer than necessary, for you had definitely captured it in your grip. He seemed hesitant to let go of the fabric that now served as a link between your two persons. 

_It’s not like you were going to_ _keep_ _it._ _And it’s not like this has anything to do with you_ , you chastised. _Maybe he just isn't good at sharing._

Before you could think too much further on it, he had relinquished his grip on the fabric and brusquely swivelled back in his chair to face the controls, sparing you no further regard. 

_ Next time? _

Now nestled in the sleeping pod beneath the Mandalorian’s obnoxiously warm cape that smelled faintly masculine, and faintly of ... soap, you were once more left alone with your thoughts -- half-baked plots of escape met with more fully-formed ideas of the unfortunate truth of facing your reckoning. 

And you were looking down the last few days of your freedom, forced to share them with this frustrating, inscrutable man and his little, sleepy gremlin. The galaxy sure was a funny place. Though you didn’t think you were in on the cosmic joke. No, you feared you were the  _ punchline _ . 

_ Spring is a Fool.  _

And so, apparently, were you. 


End file.
